


Slow Dancing in an Airport Hilton

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: But They're Sober When They Kiss Let Me Tell You, COS IT'S CANON NOW WTF, Cute, Drunk Misha, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, Equal Parts, First Kiss, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Moody Drunk Jensen, Nesnej Strikes Again, Rome - Freeform, Sexual References, Sharing Clothes, Smutty, and, drunken dancing, jibcon, moody jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 03:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14346621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Any other day, this would be disgusting. They’re both sopping sweat from both Sweet Home Alla Roma and the panel, and their cologne only amplifies the smell. Misha smells like a watermelon well past its sell-by date, and Jensen smells like moldy wood. But, despite that, and his fetid trash talk on top of it, Jensen finds comfort in it. There’s something natural about being here, in the hallway of the hundredth Airport Hilton, slow dancing with Misha.





	Slow Dancing in an Airport Hilton

**Author's Note:**

> Because Montreal Con has ruined me knowing Misha wears Jensen's clothes. And I'm supposed to be OKAY WITH THAT?

Stumbling to their hotel rooms after a night of seemingly never-ending drinks, two Bacchanalian men, American by their far-reaching yet oblivious strides, stagger over their misplaced swagger. Of course, they're plastered, so they don’t bother when their respective limbs collapse on each other. They just laugh it off without so much an attempt to pry themselves away. Instead, Jensen asks, "Mish, you ever slow dance?"

Misha, whose left hand is already gripping Jensen’s back, bunches tighter into the soaked cotton to thrust Jensen forward. Jensen doesn’t expect the delivery of the statement that follows to be coated with saliva and wax sealed with the stamp of Misha’s large, chapped lips. But Jensen’s also not filing a complaint. It’s not the first time they’ve gotten a little too handsy at the expense of the world’s most romantic city. "I'll show you a fucking slow dance.”

“Oh will you now?” Jensen teases with a growl.

Misha’s head grazes the right side of Jensen’s face. Jensen makes the mistake of side-eying him. He doesn’t say anything, but he does all the speaking with his hands when he slaps their bodies together.

Jensen then makes the mistake of dropping his hands lower on Misha’s back. “ _No,_ ” he asserts in a tone that can not only make people rethink who the real moody drunk is between them, but can make Jensen rethink wearing a pair of his Ethika’s. That poor panda is about ready to foam at the mouth.

He has to admit—he kind of likes disobeying Misha. Maybe it’s the Lambrusco. Or the Heineken. Either way, Misha having to wrestle Jensen’s hand to get it on his shoulder has become his new pastime.

“ _I’m_ the lead,” Misha smarts, placing his hand on Jensen’s waist. With their proximity, it looks like he’s just embracing Jensen, if not for Misha intertwining his other hand with his.

“You’re bossy,” Jensen smarts right back, easily slipping into a lazy, Cheshire smile. “I like it.”

“And you’re a _nuisance_ ,” Misha retorts, and it’s been a while since he’s slow danced with anyone other than his daughter—like, his _wedding,_ a while—but he’s pretty sure there’s no hip rolling involved. Especially before it’s even begun. Jensen gasps and again, maybe alcohol can seriously fuck with his perception of the world, but he’s almost positive Misha leant in for a second, as if to capture his stolen breath. Or steal it _back,_ since he’s the thief. “I had to stoop to your drunken level just to tolerate your bullshit.”

“Please, you _loooooove_ my bullshit,” Jensen sing-songs, “and the ass it comes out of.”

“Shut up and sway with me.”

And it looks more like clothes on a tumble press cycle for delicates Jensen’s almost positive Misha’s wearing, but they sway nonetheless. Any other day, this would be disgusting. They’re both sopping sweat from both Sweet Home _Alla Roma_ and the panel, and their cologne only amplifies the smell. Misha smells like a watermelon well past its sell-by date, and Jensen smells like moldy wood. But, despite that, and his fetid trash talk on top of it, Jensen finds comfort in it. There’s something natural about being here, in the hallway of the hundredth Airport Hilton, slow dancing with Misha.

“Don’t get soft on me,” Misha warns, expression unhardened—although he caresses the web between Jensen’s thumb and index finger with his own thumb saying so, “I’m still mad at you.”

“I’ll be good this year, Santa, I promisssse!” Jensen begs.

“Tell that to my ophthalmologist.”

“Please, you didn’t even see the whole thing. A tragedy, really.”

“I saw enough for my retinas to be temporarily stained with the image for a week after, thank you very much.”

“I had a _much_ bigger stain going on, believe me.”

“Oh, I _do,”_ Misha scoffs. “A little too much so, I’m afraid. Exhibitionism does _not_ look good on you.”

Jensen’s face drastically falls, along with his eyes. His own retinas have burned the image of Misha’s lips in his mind, and, judging by the way Misha’s eyeing his own lips, he has a feeling his have done the same.

He doesn’t waste time finding out.

Misha abandons Jensen’s hand to cup his face. He doesn’t venture deeper, and Jensen doesn’t mind. It’s a surprisingly gentle embrace for two men roughhousing not even five minutes ago.

“Don’t ever be afraid,” Jensen whispers against his lips. Then, a chuckle escapes him. Soon, he’s full-on giggling like a schoolgirl who was just told Tommy likes her too: "You dance your wife with these legs?"

Misha breaks into a laugh of his own. "And other things,” he replies, ducking his head.

Jensen fixes that by plucking his stubborn, stubbled chin and kissing him again. This time, there’s a little more heat, and Misha responds enthusiastically. An audible rip interrupts them as he’s sliding his right hand into Jensen’s melted-Milky-Way strands, leading Jensen’s lips, followed by his eyes, astray.

“Is that… one of the shirts I gave you?”

“That it is.”

“Huh…” Jensen looks at the new rip in the sleeve of his red flannel before his expression shifts again like the turning page of a book he and Misha have read a thousand times—one they’re even the authors of. It’s similar to the look Misha was sporting earlier. “So,” he says, cancelling the inch between Misha and the wall, “you’re bigger than me now?”

“So you’ve noticed,” Misha retorts with a smirk, eyes following Jensen’s own trek up and across his body.

“You hate exercising.”

“But I love making you sweat.”

Jensen’s eyes snap back up to Misha’s as hunger consumes him once more. Not intoxicated hunger, however; animalistic hunger. Like a lion on the prowl, he doesn’t waste a second sinking his teeth into the fleshy meat of his prey. Misha doesn’t go down without a fight. He snaps back, wrapping his mouth around Jensen’s teeth on his lower lip and even growls when Jensen’s tongue slides in.

“Fuck slow dancing,” Jensen pants, shucking Misha’s flannel sleeves off, “I wanna try the horizontal tango.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, but I actually like to think they've slow danced at some point, even just platonically. Technically, they did at Phoenix Con in 2016.... But knowing these two, I'm sure time will tell.


End file.
